


Deeds Not Words

by Love_Letter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/F, Female-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Historical References, Ineffable Activists, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Making an Effort (Good Omens), Suffragettes, for the vote
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24876931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Love_Letter/pseuds/Love_Letter
Summary: To get to the right place, to talk to the right people, to inspire the right kind of revolution-- sometimes, Aziraphale had to present as a woman. During the late 1800’s and into the early 1900’s, she became a suffragette. Crowley did too.No, they were not on the same side.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	Deeds Not Words

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by some vintage sewing patterns I found last summer and a soft spot for ineffable wives. Many, many thanks to my friend Lydia for sharing her country's history with me and for checking my Americanisms.

* * *

There were reasons Aziraphale tended to appear in the form of a white human male, the first and foremost being — it was easy. Historically speaking, at least in the Western world he often occupied, men were their own masters. They went where they pleased and did as they wanted, and should he have to answer to someone’s questions, they took his words at face value. 

That said, there were times that being a woman was necessary. To get to the right place, to talk to the right people, to inspire the right kind of revolution. Aziraphale had been a woman any time women needed an angel in their midst, most recently in the late 1800’s into the early 1900’s in London. Our story takes place then.

It was the turn of the century and with it Aziraphale turned into a suffragette. It always felt a little odd to change bodies, at first. The weight distributed differently. The fashion took getting used to. Aziraphale kept the white hair, grown out just enough to look feminine. Her pale curls framed her round face, unable to be tamed even when shoved beneath a wide-brimmed hat. She kept the bow tie and beige clothing too, added more frills to the blouse and swapped trousers for a heavy skirt. The heels were nothing she hadn’t endured during the 18th century. 

Eager to aid the furtherment of women’s rights, Aziraphale allied herself with The National Union of Women's Suffrage Societies and their leader Millicent Fawcett. Millicent was a true gentlewoman if there ever was one, steadfast in her approach to equality. She believed in pacifism, that their peaceful words would gain them the respect they needed to get the vote. Aziraphale was pleased to watch over her marches, lending small miracles to make sure the crowd listened. She was positive— this was the way, this way would work. Women had lovely voices that had not been heard enough. The time had come to change that. 

It appeared Crowley was of the same opinion; however, he did not agree on the means to their desired end. Aziraphale should have suspected as much. It wasn’t in Crowley’s nature as a demon to encourage peace. Still, Aziraphale felt the rock throwing rather distasteful. 

If Aziraphale’s ladies were the NUWSS, then Crowley’s were the Women’s Social and Political Union. They were just as determined to be heard, and they were, because when those rocks smashed through windows, people’s heads turned. Aziraphale had read about the harassment of police officers, several arrests, and oh, she didn’t even want to  _ think  _ about the hunger strikes. She needed to have a word with the demon. 

On Monday, she sent a letter listing a time and place, signed with the decided upon initials. 

On Thursday, they met. 

Aziraphale had chosen to meet at their favorite tea room. When she arrived, Crowley was already there, sitting at a round table near the window, and unsurprisingly, also presenting as a woman. Dressed all in black, from the lace of her boots to the beading on her shawl, her fiery red hair was pulled back into a high bun that made her profile look fierce. Aziraphale tutted as she approached, “You look like you’re in mourning.”

“‘course, angel.” She turned her head to look at her, and despite the fashionable dark glasses, Aziraphale felt their eyes meet. “The death of the patriarchy is upon us.” 

“What are you talking about.You can’t be mourning  _ that. _ ”

“Thousands of years of oppression, countless miserable souls, give a demon a moment.”

“I thought you wanted equality. We discussed it over biscuits in 1892!”

“Did we? I’d forgotten.” At Aziraphale’s pout, she sighed. “Fine, I haven’t forgotten, but don’t you go thinking I’m doing this because I feel sympathy for any particular gender. It’s only fair both should be equally miserable, is all. Working brilliantly so far. Men aren’t happy. They feel threatened, offended, disgusted. Children are missing mummy because she’s out at the picket. Suffrage is everything I’d imagined.”

Leave it to Crowley to turn a movement for the Greater Good into work for Hell. Those negative feelings people had were only temporary. Everything would work out fine. “That’s actually what I wanted to speak to you about today. I need you to ask Ms. Emmeline Pankhurst to tone down the violence. It’s hurting the image of the movement.”

Crowley lifted a delicate eyebrow at her, “Hurting the image? They are fighting for equality.”

“Yes, precisely, and that’s why--”

“ _ Fighting  _ for equality.” 

Aziraphale sighed, “Please, my dear. You don’t understand.”

“I understand perfectly.”

Charged silence filled the space between them, and then suddenly, two steaming cups. The waitress had come over to deposit them on the table, oblivious to their conversation, “Anything else you’d like, madam?” The question was directed at Crowley. She shook her head and the girl left them be. 

Aziraphale broke eye contact to look down at the drinks. Coffee for Crowley and cocoa for herself. The tension in her shoulders eased. She reached out and held the delicate tea cup, commenting, “You remembered my order.”

“Lucky guess.”

They both knew it wasn’t. Aziraphale took a pleased sip, the chocolate delicious, just the right blend of sweetness and spice on her tongue. She hummed her approval. 

Crowley did not touch her coffee, clearing her throat, “As I was saying, your side has your way of doing things, and my side has another way. Emmeline’s choices are her own.”

“You could influence her to be a bit less radical.”

“No can do,” Crowley relaxed back into her chair, “Already wrote the opposite in my reports. Besides, she was arrested this morning outside the courthouse. Might be another six weeks until I see her again.”

“What was she arrested for this time?”

Crowley shrugged, “Probably another run-in with the police. She does like to strike them in the face.” 

Aziraphale set her cup down and pinched the bridge of her nose. “This is exactly what I mean. If she keeps getting in trouble, she hinders the movement.”

“I disagree. Every time she gets arrested, it’s in the local papers. People are talking.”

“They’re not talking about the right things.”

“They’re talking about women’s right to vote, aren’t they?” 

In a roundabout way, Aziraphale supposed they were. “Fine, just,” she waved her hands, trying to verbalize some sort of compromise, “Keep them safe?”

“I’ll do what I can.” She said, finally lifting the coffee cup to her red-painted lips, stopping just short to ask, “What are you doing Saturday evening?”

“I have a meeting with the Suffrage Societies from noon,” Aziraphale answered, “but it should be finished by 3’ o clock.”

“I have tickets to that play opening at the New Theatre. Interested?”

“Oh,  _ yes _ .”

* * *

It was a particularly cold day in February of 1918, cold enough that the clouds overhead threatened to snow. Aziraphale found the idea quite delightful, adding to her good mood as she wound her scarf more fully around her neck and entered St James's Park. She found the determined rendezvous point and waited, purposely keeping her eyes on the lake and not daring to look around. The water was frozen over. A grey heron trotted across the ice, occasionally poking his beak down to test the surface. Aziraphale waved one gloved hand, creating a hole in the ice for the bird to fish. 

“It’s  _ freezing _ out here.” 

“Good afternoon, my dear.” 

“Whose idea was it to meet at the park?”

“Yours, I believe.” 

“Ugh.”

Aziraphale turned to find Crowley, arms wrapped around herself. It appeared she was wearing a fur coat, but closer inspection would prove the fur did not belong to any animal and had likely been miracled out of thin air for its aesthetic. “They say it might snow today.”

“I’d rather it didn’t.”

“Should we go inside, then?” 

  
  
  


The National Gallery was warmer than the park and surprisingly lacking for other patrons. They purchased their tickets separately and began their tours divided, eventually coming to opposite sides of the Italian Schools hall. They met in the middle, at one of the many “Portrait of a Lady” paintings in the Florentine section. 

Aziraphale began conversationally, “Wonderful news about the Representation of the People Act, isn’t it?”

Crowley grunted. “Wonderful for who? A handful of women over 30 who own property?”

“They also extended the right to vote to men who don’t own property. All women will follow suit. It’s a good first step, you’ll agree.” 

“It’s not enough.” Crowley said simply, and continued to stalk down the row of paintings. 

Aziraphale followed, “I’m not saying it’s enough. I’m just saying we’re on our way. Doesn’t that deserve some celebration?” 

“No.”

“I don’t think you understand. Women can be elected to Parliament now!”

Crowley paused, turning slowly on her heel to respond, “Yes, to represent their very particular, high class agendas. Sounds great. Definitely the sort of thing I’ll be writing downstairs about.” 

“You fiend. That’s not fair.” 

“Then write the opposite to  _ up _ stairs and see if they care to check.” Crowley snapped. “I’m not ready to stop fighting yet.”

Aziraphale huffed, crossing her arms and looking at the nearest painting. Another woman, this time in profile, her collar high and hair covered with a veil. They had come so far already. It hurt that Crowley thought she didn’t care to push more.  _ Of course _ , they weren’t done. “I’m not stopping either.” She muttered.

After a pass of silence, Crowley spoke. “We should fuel up before the battle continues. Lunch, angel?”

It was as close to an apology as she was going to get. Her eyes drifted from the painting to her companion. Crowley’s aura seemed softer around its edges, making Aziraphale’s heart fonder. “I know a charming place nearby. Let’s hurry before the weather worsens.” 

  
  
  


The cafe Aziraphale adored was small, nestled between a locksmith and tailor, both of which had closed up shop for the day. The owner of the establishment was unperturbed by the brewing storm, his family’s living quarters located conveniently on the second floor. He served them their meal and bunkered down behind the counter with his newspaper. 

“I bet it’s warmer by the stove,” Crowley grumbled. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think it would be so drafty.” 

“It’s fine.” Crowley held her steaming mug of tea, warming her hands. 

Aziraphale glanced around, and confirming there were no other customers, stood and plopped herself down into the other side of the small booth. Crowley eyed the non-existent space between them, “What are you doing?”

“I thought we could sit together, since you seemed cold.”

“You don’t have to--”

“Speak nothing of it.” Really, she thought, don’t. She resisted the urge to look upwards. Aziraphale leaned her weight and warmth into Crowley’s side, head turned so their noses were nearly touching, “That gentleman over there won’t think anything of it. We’re only gossiping ladies.”

Crowley’s posture was rigid. Her glasses slid down her nose, and it wasn’t until she was looking into the color of her eyes that Aziraphale realized just how close she’d made them. What a rare treat it was, to see the golden flakes in those irises, and completely sober, too. Aziraphale’s breath caught in her throat. 

“Are you sure?” Crowley asked, voice hesitant. 

It was a risk. Aziraphale didn’t want to move away. She rationalized their position out loud for both of them. “It’s only for a little while. We’ll be on our separate ways before anyone notices.”

Crowley did the same room check that Aziraphale had done, and apparently satisfied with their safety, let herself sag into the angel’s side. “Alright, what’s next for your girls? I’m still a fan of vandalism for the WSPU.” 

Over the next hour they made a plan of action, sitting too-close and perfectly cozy in the cafe. It might have been a miracle that no one interrupted them. 

Outside, it flurried. 

* * *

  
  


“I think we’ve earned the right to celebrate.” Crowley announced loudly as she strolled into the bookshop brandishing a bottle of wine. The door locked itself obediently behind her. “You read the news yet?”

“I was  _ there _ .” Aziraphale replied, putting away the tools she’d been using to repair the spine of an old tome. “Sweet Millicent was too, although I kept my distance.”

“Representation of the People, parenthesis Equal Franchise end parenthesis, Act 1928.” She said, setting her offering down on the small table in the back room, “Why’d they have to put parentheses in it like that?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.” 

Aziraphale stood up to move to her usual arm chair as Crowley took a seat on the sofa. She watched the demon bend to unhook the straps of her heels, kick them off, and lounge across the cushions. She propped her stockinged feet up, her dress hem sliding up to reveal her knees and the first inch or so of her thighs. Aziraphale should’ve been scandalized, but the demon’s legs were too lovely not to admire. Really, Crowley’s whole form was lovely. She traced her eyes along the lines of her companion, the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the slenderness of her shoulders, eventually coming to meet golden eyes. When had she removed her glasses?

“Like what you see?” Crowley teased. 

Aziraphale had the decency to blush. “I’m sorry, just, getting used to the new fashion.”

“You should give the flapper look a try.”

“I think I’d better not.”

While Aziraphale was comfortable in her female body, she was not eager to experiment with showing off more skin. No, that was for the more bold. For people like Crowley. All fashion suited her. Long legs and long arms free to bare as she pleased. 

With a sudden pang, Aziraphale realized Crowley might not keep her current form much longer. After all, with the vote won, they did not have a reason to stay women anymore. It was too bad, she mused, as she’d gotten quite used to it. 

“Don’t look so glum, angel. Your fashion is outdated, but it’s fine.”

“How kind of you to say.”

Crowley grunted, deflecting with a demand, “Pour us some wine.”

Azirphale fetched a pair of the most beautiful glasses in her collection, jugendstil crystal and painted gold. The design was simple and elegant, suitable for their celebration. She filled one glass and passed it to Crowley, who reluctantly sat up straight, then poured her own. As she placed the bottle down, Crowley raised her glass into the air, “To women’s rights in London!”

Aziraphale gently clinked their glasses together, “To women’s rights in London, and someday, the world.”

  
  


They’d shared one bottle of wine and another of champagne by the time Crowley decided it was time to leave. Aziraphale felt pleasantly tipsy, standing to follow her partner to the front door. A step behind her, Aziraphale had one more chance to sweep her eyes over Crowley’s form: from her copper hair, curled and pinned into a neat bob, to her narrow hips, hugged by the delicately beaded dress, down to her ankles and the straps of her high heels clicking across the wooden floor. The question came out unbidden, “Are-- are you planning to change soon?”

“I mean, I don’t sleep in this outfit, if that’s what you’re asking.” Crowley turned to face her in the doorway.

“No, not that, I mean,” Aziraphale gestured to the whole of her, “Are you going to be making a different...  _ effort _ now that we’re done being suffragettes?”

Crowley shrugged, “Suppose so. Hadn’t really thought about it yet.”

“Oh.” She wondered if she’d brought the change around sooner just by mentioning it and tried to backpedal their conversation. “I’m not suggesting that you  _ should _ . You,” the wine made her head fuzzy, and words tumbled out in a rush, “You’re just, so  _ very _ beautiful right now, I wanted to know if it was the last time I’d see you like this, if-- if I should say goodbye.” 

Crowley blinked once, slowly, as if resetting her vision to confirm it was really, truly Aziraphale spewing such nonsense at her. As the angel blushed darker, the demon began to smirk, “You  _ do _ like what you see.” She laughed, the sound of it enchanting, “I suppose I am a master temptre _ sss _ . Even an angel like you couldn’t resist me.” 

The angel in question frowned, “ _ Are _ you playing some demonic trick on me?”

“Not at all.” Crowley reached up to gently push the white-blonde hair out of her face, twirling a curl around the knuckle of her index finger. The brush of her hand was cool against Aziraphale’s heated cheek. “Suppose I should change, though. Don’t want to tempt you.” 

She was not quite drunk enough to plead  _ tempt me _ , but there was a small, dangerous voice in her head that whispered it, that yearned to know-- what would the temptation look like? What would Crowley ask of her? (What would she be willing to give?) 

“Well, time to say goodbye.”

Aziraphale’s stomach dropped, disappointment flooding her. She said a soft, “Goodbye, my dear.” and expected that would be the end of it. 

Crowley snorted. “Not like that. Like this.” She sank her fingers deeper into Aziraphale’s hair, cupping the side of her head as she leaned in to close the gap of space between them. There was a moment of shock, then Aziraphale’s eyes fell shut, welcoming the soft press of lips against her own as she lifted her arms to wrap around Crowley’s slender frame. The kiss was tender, both too long and too short when broken. 

Aziraphale inhaled shakily, forcing herself to let go of the demon and take a step back, “What…”

“You know what they say, angel. Deeds, not words.”

She pushed open the door behind them and stepped out into the night. Aziraphale watched, half numb, as Crowley sauntered down the street, offering one more wave over her shoulder before vanishing. 

Aziraphale closed the door again, leaning heavily against it. She brought one hand to her heart, erratically beating in her chest, and the other to her lips, tingling with the aftermath of having kissed a being of hellfire. She mumbled to herself, “Indeed.” 


End file.
